


Into the Purple Night Sky

by temporalDecay



Series: a distrait life of mistakes [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drunk Sex, F/M, Gills, Illustrated, M/M, March Eridan, Multi, Murder, Piercings, piercings in places there shouldn't be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eridan Ampora, Agness Syzygy and Russel Zephyr do the troll equivalent of springbreak. It... goes about as well as you might expect.</p><p>No SGRUB AU, post successful coup, featuring Eridan "Murder Is A Thing I Am Mildly Competent At" Ampora, Agness "I Can't Believe This Is Real Life" Syzygy and Russel "No, Really, Fuck My Life And Everything In It" Zephyr. Set during <em>Search for the Face of Love</em>, so not strictly speaking a sequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Purple Night Sky

Your name is Eridan Ampora and you are basking in the greatest pleasure known to trollkind: staying inside your recuperacoon well after the ship’s siren has stopped howling. 

There’s something deliciously decadent in lying there, wiggling your toes and sighing every so often, knowing full well you can stay there all night, if you want to. You just might, really, there’s nothing you have to do. You’re done with finals. You’re done with end-of-term paperwork. And most importantly, you’re done with that goddamn fucking hideous budget proposal group project that had you threatening violence every five fucking minutes for the past two perigees, without actually having gone through with your multiple threats to strangle everyone with their own goddamn innards. _There’s nothing you have to do_. Best of all, you have four glorious, blessed weeks of freedom, and an entire block to yourself to enjoy them in, mostly because by now you’re only rooming with Russel and Agness. Russel tries, he tries so hard, to laze about and do nothing, but he eventually succumbs to the temptation of going for a walk or reading in the common block or hunting down somewhere nice to eat at the other side of the ship. And Agness can’t stay locked up in the block for more than half an hour before she all but starts vibrating in place. So if you want to lie in sopor and wiggle your toes and do jackshitfuck all, you can. _You can_. 

Life is such an amazing thing. 

You’re terribly busy contemplating this marvelous state of being when the door opens and in walks Agness, coming to stand in the middle of the block. Because you adore the tealblood more than you’ll ever feel comfortable admitting, you make a monumental effort to pull yourself off the sopor, as does Russel, two empty coons down from you. While he sits up, though, all you manage is to sprawl over the rim of the coon, smiling lazily at her. 

The smile dies pretty quickly when she empties her sylladex and six pails clatter on the floor, and you nearly slide off the side in surprise, making a sound you’ll be embarrassed to own up to afterwards. 

Russel _meeps_. 

“So here’s what, ladies,” Agness says, grinning her shark grin and resting her hands on her hips. “You know that blueblood in the bridge team I did the piercing job on? Turns out she’s paying me with something potentially nicer than cash.” The grin gets, if possible, even more shark-like. “Her moirail works in a planetside resource station in this sector, and she’s willing to get us a block aboard for a week and a half.” Russel perks up considerably at that, though you’re still too busy handling the implications of ‘we’ to really start on ‘planetside’. Agness nudges the pile of pails with a foot, and part of you is still capable of being scandalized by that, even now, even after all you’ve done. “We have a shuttle to catch in six hours, so chop-chop, get your glutes moving. There’s packing to be done and pails to be filled and delivered to the medbay, so get to it while I file the permits.” 

You and Russel share a look. You know you look confused, but he just looks resigned. He moves to obey, because god knows Russel is smart enough to obey when Agness starts barking orders. You just stare a little. 

“But—“ 

“Do _not_ fuck with me, Eridan Ampora.” You huddle back into the depths of your recuperacoon, because when Agness uses your full name, you know better than to test her patience. She’s not even looking at you, and busying herself with her husktop and her paperwork, and somehow the fact she’s not even bothering to glare at you makes it worse. “Do _not_ fuck with me unless it involves your tongue so far up my nook you taste the underside of my seedflap, Princess.” She says, sharp enough Russel is wincing sympathetically, even as he slouches his way out of the block, sidestepping the pails on the floor. “Just don’t. You’re coming along and that wasn’t a question. Now drag your sorry carcass to the ablution trap, unless you want to get goddamn sopor mixed in the slurry.” 

You stare at her. She doesn’t look up from the screen. For the umpteenth time since you met her, you stumble on the realization that she’s going to make a wholly terrifying addition to the fleet one day. You consider your options and swallow hard, as you realize it’s been more than a sweep, since you’ve last seen or heard anything from the others. You don’t really have any reasons to object to the idea, except the shapeless blob of fear stuck under your tongue that takes you far too long to realize is just excitement. You swallow hard again and try to remember if excitement ever got you in trouble. It probably did. Everything you’ve ever done always got you in trouble because you’re too fucking dumb to read those cues that supposedly everyone gives on whether shit is alright with them or not. You’re too fucking dumb to have nice things, because you had the nicest things, and they took them away when you fucked up one too many times. 

You’ve mastered your bitterness, though. Mostly because you don’t have time to sit down and wallow on it. You have better things to do than be bitter about what happen _ed_ , when what’s happen _ing_ is demanding so much attention. There are so many still bleeding wounds everywhere, and all you want to do is curl up and cry miserably because fuck this shit, this is not what you wanted, not even close. But you’re never going to get closure, you think, you’re never going to do or say all the things you’d like, because you’ve realized that they’re wrong or the time is for that is gone, and all you can do is go through life one step at the time, learning how to lean this or that way and ignore the bleeding because it’s supposed to stop on its own anyway. 

“Eridan,” Agness says, surprisingly gentle, for all the ranting she’s done, like a soft nudge to bring you back to reality. 

“Going,” you croak, crawling out of the soothing, tempting embrace of sopor onto the floor. 

Agness, being Agness and not privy to the current existential crisis you’re currently going through, slaps your ass as you pass her by. That wakes you up enough to yelp and rant and bitch and whine, and by the time you make it to the ablution trap, you’re in the right frame of mind to corner Russel while he’s drying off. 

The night just gets weirder from there. 

  


* * *

  


“I’m _dying_ ,” you say, staring intently at the ceiling, body a boneless puddle of exhaustion. “Fuck this, Ag, troll bodies are not meant to take this kind of punishment.” 

She looks up from whatever she’s doing in her husktop and grimaces somewhat, since the way you’re sprawled means she has a nice view of everything between your legs. Because you’re an asshole and in a mood, you spread your legs wider, to make a point. She throws a piece of clothing – knowing Agness, yours – at you, and you hiss in the back of your throat when it lands, because everything south of your waist and north of your knees feels swollen and raw. You never thought you’d die of sex, even in your wildest fantasies. 

It occurs to you that if people actually knew what it feels like, they wouldn’t be so wistful about it. 

“What’s with you and leaking on the floor?” She asks instead, completely ignoring the fact that _you’re dying_. “And you _like_ that kind of punishment.” There’s a pause. “Now, seriously Princess, get off the fucking floor, you’re honest to fucking god leaking and I’m not going to clean that shit up.” 

“I think I’m _bleeding_ ,” you insist, because you just squeezed out four fucking pails worth of genetic material in less than two hours and your entire body is threatening to go on strike. You neglect to mention the fact you’re halfway drunk on hormones at the moment and the world is full of fuzzy, bright corners that make you feel okay with everything. You _cannot_ be okay with everything because you know firsthand everything sucks and nothing is okay. So you whine, instead. “I’m going to die.” 

“I think you’re a melodramatic bitch,” Agness goes on, unflinching and unmoved by your plight. “Now get off the fucking floor, we’ve got about three hours to get in that shuttle.” 

You shift a little, realizing halfway through that you’re not gonna be able to sit up just yet, so you just let yourself lie on your side and pretend real hard that was what you were attempting to do in the first place. The shift makes your insides throb, and despite the whining it’s actually ridiculously pleasant. You’re pretty sure Agness knows you’re full of shit and complaining just for the sake of complaining, even if you really are tender all over. You know, because if you were actually hurt she’d be fussing about it and making you feel dumb and awkward about everything. 

Once upon a time, you would have made a production out of the sheer, unabashed pale adoration you have for the ridiculous tealblood that likes to punch holes in your person and doesn’t take one iota of your shit. 

Once upon a time, you were a monumental dumbfuck that survived out of sheer miraculous improbability and lost everything you had, precisely because you were so damn hellbent on making a production out of everything. 

These days you’re smart enough to leave the quadrant business to people who by virtue of not being you are actually capable of handling them, and pretend real hard you don’t rather she’d shoosh you instead of fucking you. You’re shitty moirail material, anyway, and she deals with your shit far more than any sane troll should. You don’t dare push a millimeter beyond the boundaries, when it comes to Agness and Russel, because you’ve come to realize you’d be thoroughly, completely fucked without them. You take a moment to ruin the shirt by slowly and delicately wiping yourself clean, and then you throw it lazily in the general direction of your recuperacoon. 

“I want it on record,” you say, leaning against the blessed cold of the wall and tilting your head back until your horns are scratching the metal surface, “that this is the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had.” 

“My ideas are awesome,” Agness snorts, closing her husktop and walking over to offer you a hand up. “You’re just bitter you’ve discovered that if you flunk out of admin schoolfeeding, you won’t be able to get a career in porn. Or prostitution. Don’t take it out on me, just because your dreams’ been dashed, Princess.” 

“Hilarious,” you deadpan, even as you take the offered hand and take a moment to moan when you actually pull yourself upright. “Go suck my bulge.” 

“Twice in a night? You ain’t that lucky,” she chirps back, utterly unrepentant even as she lets you rest half your weight on her. “And if four were so terrible, five might actually do you in, via me strangling you if you keep whining.” 

“If you’d done four at once, you’d understand,” you insist, arguing now just for the pleasure of arguing, and not complaining one bit when her hold on your arms turns into a slightly awkward hug. 

“I’ve done four at once,” she says, inordinately proud of herself, because she likes being better than you and for some reason you just can’t be pissed at her when she proves again and again that she _is_. “Just not this time. Thinking ahead is not a crime, Princess.” 

“I hate everything,” you whine, with absolute no conviction whatsoever. 

“Go get cleaned up and you’ll hate everything a little less.” 

You moan miserably because there should be a goddamn law against Agness speaking sense while gently nuzzling the gills on your neck. You tighten your hold on her as much as you’re capable, which is really nothing, and then pull away, slowly slouching your way to the ablution trap again, for your third shower of the night. 

You content yourself with the thought of nice, cool water on your skin, and decide to shut down your pan for the next three weeks or so. 

  


* * *

  


“Get your hands off them.” 

The words are out of your mouth before you can really think things through, but you see the blueblood flinch slightly, when he looks at your face, and you decide to run away with it. You know that look, after all, you saw a lot of it, during the first days of the revolution. It’s the look of a blood supremacist who doesn’t like the Empress’ ideas of equality for all castes. You can almost see it in his eyes, the urge to recognize your blood and the urge to hurt your friends just because their blood is not blue enough. 

You flare your fins and snarl at him, standing at your full height, and hope to god this doesn’t turn into a scene, even though you’re about to make it into one. 

“I said _get your hands off them_ , you panrotten, dirtlicking sack of _shit_.” 

He lets go of their arms instantly, giving three steps back. Russel is rubbing his arm with a scowl, but Agness looks homicidal. You give her a look and hope she understands, when you beckon them both to stand closer to you. 

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” the blueblood mutters, “I thought—“ 

“Well, it’s a damn good thing thinking ain’t part of your job, is it?” You sneer at him, trying to recall an arrogance you haven’t been owner of in _sweeps_. “You fuck with my quadrants, shitblood, and you fuck with _me_.” 

He stares at you and you stare right back, hoping to god it’s not obvious how tenuous your hold on the charade really is, and how fucking terrified you actually are. He swallows audibly and drops his eyes to the ground first. You don’t sag in relief out of sheer adrenaline. 

“Of course, my Lord, forgive my impertinence.” He offers back your IDs and your sylladex cards, without even looking at them, which you suppose it’s a good thing, because your actual rank is written plainly in them. “There is an empty cabin, if you’d like to take it. As an apology for this misunderstanding.” 

You don’t know when Agness’ hand found yours, but you tighten your hold on it and feel some of the panic slide off your back. You wish you could lean on Russel, too, because there’s something stupidly reassuring in having Russel at your side, like the rest of the world can just go fuck itself, but you’re pretty sure you’d lose it if you did. You make sure your back is ramrod straight, letting you tower over everyone present. 

“We’ll take it.” 

You storm into the shuttle with Agness and Russel at your heels, moving with the tilt on your shoulders that would make a cape billow violently behind you. You can’t name the feeling in your gut, whether it’s nostalgia or shame or fury, but then you’re stepping into the spacious block and closing the door behind you and it doesn’t matter. You sag and lean most of your weight on Russel, still without letting go of Agness’ hand. He lets out a put upon sigh and grins, wrapping an arm around your waist, and you three stumble onto a nice, plushy seat where you plop down bonelessly. Every joint in your body feels like it’s made of foam and your insides churn nervously, because all your body wants is to lay in sopor and not wake up for a week. 

“Really nice performance there, Princess,” Agness teases, as you shift around until your legs are sprawled on her lap. She fingers your knuckles and you laugh between your teeth, shaking your head. “I revise my previous statement, you might not have a future in porn, but maybe acting. You know, the kind that doesn’t involve you spreading your legs and leering at the camera.” 

Russel snorts in the back of his throat and effortlessly reaches a hand to stop you from smacking one of Agness’ horns. She sticks her tongue out at you and you return the gesture even as Russel goes about manhandling you into a more comfortable position, sitting in his lap. 

“That was a monumentally stupid stunt,” you inform her, tucking your head under Russel’s chin and letting him pet your back, because you’re still shaking a little. “Agness, you’re going to get us culled.” 

“I’m too competent to be culled, and Russel’s too pretty,” she says, and the greenblood huffs a breath against the base of your left horn, “and you… well, who on their right mind would try to cull our perfect princess?” 

It feels like a heavy, spiked ball is lodged in your gut. You think of a certain holding cell, with bright white walls and bright white light, and the smiles and the sneers and the sheer relief in the faces around you, when you were shoved inside. 

“No one, Eridan,” Russel rumbles in your ear, after he bites the largest spine in your left fin hard enough to jolt you out of your thoughts. “That’s your cue to say _no one_ and be an utterly obnoxious seadweller prick.” 

“Fuck you,” you snap, shifting your head as if to gore him with your horns, because _thank you_ and _I love you_ are words that have no place here. 

“Already did tonight,” Russel says, smirking slyly against the side of your face, “twice.” 

Agness cracks up laughing at the strangled sound that squeezes out of your throat, and Russel grins like a goddamn asshole as you splutter and flush and try ineffectively to squirm out of his lap. 

When the shuttle actually takes off, you’re almost certain everything will be alright. 

  


* * *

  


The station itself is little more than the top floor of a very tall elevator connecting the hangars with the base on the planet’s surface. The entire planet is a mine, with a handful of trolls and a bunch of drones slowly working to hollow it out and leave it an empty husk. There isn’t much to do, except hang out in the various bars and maybe go take a walk, being careful not to step into secure areas. But that really doesn’t matter because you’re _planetside_ , you can actually walk out and explore and feel solid fucking ground under your feet. Breathe air that’s actually air, not processed and reprocessed gas fluffed up a little so you don’t die. There are forests out there, specially planted to terraform the place into something that’s troll-friendly enough you don’t need ridiculous amounts of equipment to take a stroll outside. It’s colder than Alternia, but not enough to really put a dent on the excitement of actually spending time outside a ship. You thought you were going to spend the entire week sleeping anyway, but with the very real possibility of _outside_ at hand, the block you’re staying in seems too claustrophobic. 

“Rocks,” Russel says, with the kind of put upon resignation only he can muster whenever you and Agness get an idea. “It’s _rocks_. Can we go back now?” 

“ _Alien_ rocks,” Agness corrects him, standing at the edge of a cliff that drops several thousand feet down into a mineshaft. 

“Rocks,” Russel whines in despair, looking at you for support. 

“They’re pretty alien, Rus,” you say, shrugging. 

“You’re buying me dinner when we get back,” he moans, huddling a little miserably inside his jacket. 

You take pity on him and wrap an arm around his shoulders, tucking him against your side, while you two watch Agness walk along the rim of the canyon, utterly uncaring of the heights or the faint buzz of machinery down below. The planet has no moons, so it’s kind of odd to look up in the sky and see unfamiliar stars and nothing else, with the tall, imposing shaft connecting the base and the station in the distance. Odd, but nice. 

“Hell, I’ll buy the first round, that’s how damn magnanimous I am.” 

“You’re full of shit,” Russel mutters a little despairingly, tilting his head so his left horn is rubbing against the side of your face. “But I like you anyway.” 

“I’m fucking amazing and you love me,” you snap, tilting your head so you can scrape on band where red melts into orange with your teeth. 

Russel makes a sound somewhere between an indignant squawk and a grub-like chirp that makes you cackle fiendishly. You don’t even care when he slaps your side, right on the gills, with his open palm. Agness ends up dragging you both by the horns back inside, muttering snidely about goddamn morons she can’t take _anywhere_. 

You’re grinning all the while. 

  


* * *

  


“You ever just sit back and realize we’re weird as fuck?” 

If you could move, you’d laugh, but Agness has you immobilized, about thirty needles sticking out your skin on strategic spots. She laughs for both of you, at least, before sticking another needle into your spine. 

“Babyface, if it’s taken you this long to realize we’re freaks of nature, you need help, man.” 

You’re sprawled on the concupiscent platform, arms and legs hanging off bonelessly, as Agness circles you around, slowly but surely melting off the knots of tension in your body. You don’t know how it works, exactly, only that needles go in specific points and they don’t even hurt. But you already feel heavy and content and relaxed like you haven’t been in about a sweep, which is about as long since she last did this to you. 

This is definitely not the intended use of a concupiscent platform, but you don’t really care. Maybe once she takes out the needles and your pan is not full of pleased, fuzzy mush, the novelty of actually having a concupiscent platform will sink in enough to try and break it in. 

“Look,” Russel says, coming to sit on the floor within your sight and offering you a small wry smile before he looks at Agness. “I know I’m weird, and I know you’re weird, and god knows Fins is the weirdest of them all.” You make a rumbling sound in the back of your throat which you hope he knows means you’d be flipping him the finger if you could. Agness sticks another needle in the back of your thigh and you feel yourself melting further. “But I mean we’re weird as in, together.” 

“By our powers combined, we’re the weirdest freaks anyone’ll ever meet?” 

Another needle low on your back. 

“Yeah.” 

Agness makes a small sound as she runs a claw down your spine, admiring her handiwork. You purr for her, eyes sliding nearly shut. Agness doesn’t ask what happened, because for all you three shoosh and pap each other from time to time, acting too pale or too flushed breaks the awkward carelessness of it. You fuck and snuggle because you feel like it, not because you’re somehow obligated to look after a quadrant. Because you’ve learned to value that casual air inside your block and the uncomplicated way you three just work together. Sex used to terrify you, before, but then Agness taught you how to separate it from the things that made it terrifying – the idea you’ll be culled if you don’t hand in the right set of pails, the fear of letting yourself be vulnerable in someone else’s presence, the fucking soul destroying reality that you’re so goddamn stupid with feelings you’ve ruined your last chance to be with someone who actually, genuinely, truly loved you – and let you enjoy the purely physical pleasure of it. You’ve learned sex is a great stress reliever, or a nice pick-me-up after an abysmal night, or an excellent way to celebrate not royally fucking up a given task. You don’t do black or flushed, except during those weeks when you’re expected to, and then once the pails are taken, you go right back to not caring about quadrants, because quadrants are fucking painful and you’re too goddamn dumb to make them work. 

The underlying commitment in your unspoken agreement is that no one does anything they don’t want to do, and that beyond that, you’re just friends. That’s it. No big deal. That’s why Agness offers, giving Russel that long, knowing look of hers, but then goes back to sticking more needles into you, letting him choose on his own. 

“There was this guy at the worker’s bar,” he says after a moment, folding his hands on his lap. "I think he was trying to hit on me.” 

“You think?” Agness asks, lips twitching a little. 

“…it was so damn awkward to behold,” he shrugs. “I mean, he pretty much just wanted a lay, I think.” 

“That’s because you’re pretty as fuck, Babyface,” Agness coos, sliding a needle less than an inch away from the edge of a gill. “I keep telling you this and you don’t believe me.” 

“He kept rambling about shit,” Russel goes on, bravely ignoring Agness teasing, but at the same relaxing further because of it, “and then it just occurred to me that he could damn well just ask. I mean, that’s what you and Eridan do.” 

There’s a significant silence at that, delicate. Even if you’re all but drugged by what those needles are doing to your nervous system, you can sense the strange air in the block. 

“And then I realized he just _couldn’t_ ,” Russel says, back arching forward and head tilting back a little, in a way he only does when he’s feeling defensive. It’s always made you think he’s preparing to charge at someone with his horns. “Because he didn’t know how and that’s not actually a skill most trolls have and it got weirder and weirder the more I thought about it and the more he babbled on. So I just finished my beer and came back.” He chuckles wryly. “We’re weird as fuck, guys.” 

Agness walks over to him, forcing him to break the posture and lean back so she can slide into his lap. His arms fall around her waist with the same ease yours would, and while you’re lying there, naked and impersonating a fucking pincushion, you wait for the flare of irrational jealousy that never comes, because it’s Russel and it’s Agness. Not even you could find a way to feel excluded when you’re right _there_. 

“Trolls are dumb as fuck,” Agness says, with a tone that books no objections, letting Russel hook his chin on her shoulder. “We’re just smarter than average and they’re jealous they’re not as fabulous as we are.” You make a sound in the back of your throat, the closest you can get to words under the circumstances. “See? Even the Princess agrees.” 

“The Princess is communing with alternate planes of reality right now,” Russel laughs, squinting at you. You gurgle. “I think.” 

“That better be a compliment to my skills,” Agness arches an eyebrow challengingly, and Russel laughs. 

“Yeah,” he frowns a bit, “yeah, I don’t suppose you’d…?” 

They fuck, then, you think. Probably. You fall asleep right where you are, not even five minutes later, and you’re so relaxed you don’t even dream, despite the lack of sopor. When you wake up, the needles are gone and you’re so damn loose-limbed you just crawl back into your recuperacoon and go right back to sleep. 

  


* * *

  


“We should go out,” Agness says, running her claws through your hair. 

You’re resting your head against one of her thighs, the heavy tang of her genetic material thick on your tongue and your body still in that pleasant, uncertain stage, where it doesn’t know if it wants to cool down and relax, or heat up further and demand you do something to with the tiny kernel of lust lodged up between your legs. 

“Go out where?” You ask, tilting your head into her fingers. “Because I ain’t in the mood to go look at rocks. Anything but rocks, Ag. No more.” 

She flicks a claw against the first curve of your right horn and it reverberates all the way down to the base, making you shiver. You look up and she’s grinning, so you grin back, lips pulling back to show a hint of teeth. The way she arches an eyebrow, there’s probably still teal smeared down the lower half of your face. 

“To watch a movie, asshole, I mean we should go out and watch a movie. I heard there’s a new flick in the entertainment sector.” She nudges your forehead, slightly pushing you away. “So go wash yourself, you’re not making me change my mind about your abysmal porn career.” 

“My fucking hopes and dreams, Ag,” you lay on the accent thick, because it never fails to make her giggle, and you slowly push yourself up to your feet. “Crush them into dust under your heel, why don’t you. Fucking mean, that.” 

“Damn right I’m mean,” she grins and waves a hand, shooing you towards the ablution block, “it gets shit done.” 

When you come back, you’re greeted with a shirt to the face. Very magnanimously, you tug it back on and take a moment to stretch, linking your fingers together and pulling until your palms are touching the ceiling. The block you three are sharing for now is pretty damn spacious, when compared to the tiny one back in the Academy. There isn’t much to look at it, but the cerulean blue in the scarce decorations justifies the extra space. You haven’t met the owner and you don’t think you will. That works just fine. The station itself is not very heavily populated, as much of the brunt of the workforce stays planetside. It’s very different from the Academy, and the difference is both exciting and fascinating. Most trolls here are busy with their own work, and the entertainment block is both more varied and less cohesive than the one you’re used to. There are all sorts of trolls mingling about, most of them lowbloods, but you’ve seen a few higher castes about. You mostly keep your head down and mind your own business, but it does make you wonder what’ll happen when you graduate. You’re doing good, so far. Your grades are a fucking monument to your hard work, and you suppose it shouldn’t be too difficult to get a good assignment when the time comes. It’s not something you think about often, though, because you’ve tried, for your own sanity, to ignore blood politics to the best of your ability. You’re still pretty sure you’re going to be a first, and you don’t know how you’ll feel about it, doing what you’re training to do and having the blood you do. 

Russel is right, you suppose, you’re the weirdest of the lot. 

You rub your knuckles and watch as Agness wraps herself in something frilly and ruffled, smoothing down fabric with her hands. You look down at yourself, the generic long sleeve shirt with your sign on it, the skinny jeans that were among the few pairs you’d found that fit you well, considering your height, and the standard uniform boots which are pretty much the only shoes you deign wear these days. You wonder when you stopped caring about your clothes all together; you used to love to pick entire outfits, fussing over fabrics and colors. Now you don’t really give it much of a thought, what you look like, because you’re always getting yelled at for what you did or didn’t do, and no one spares a second look to you, back in the Academy. Maybe the younger kids, who don’t even know what the fuck a seadweller is doing there, but they tend to get swept by the workload soon enough. You can’t tell precisely when that kind of thing stopped mattering, but you know it had to have happened at some point. 

You feel a bit cheated, in a way, that there was no big revelation about it. That something that used to be such a big part of yourself would suddenly be gone without any kind of epiphany or conscious thought. 

“There,” Agness says after a moment, looking down at herself. “Perfect.” 

“But I’m the Princess?” You tease, smile tugging easily at your lips, as you offer a hand. 

“Yes,” and she smiles back, utterly unruffled and twining her fingers with yours. “I just happen to be vain.” 

“C’mon,” you roll your eyes good naturedly, tugging her out of the block. “Did you ask Russel to come?” 

“Yeah, but he’s roped a bunch of people into a snatch tournament down in the worker’s bar,” Agness sighs melodramatically, and then shrugs. “So I guess it’s just you and I this time.” 

“Did he say anything about not getting in trouble?” You ask, as you head down the corridor, because you know Russel and Russel knows you and Agness very well. 

“Standard don’t set shit on fire warnings and everything,” she snorts, waving her free hand dismissively. “I swear, is like he doesn’t trust us to not get ourselves culled or something.” 

  


* * *

  


The movie, as it turns out, is shit. You sit through nearly three hours’ worth of poorly done effects and a plot with more holes that Agness’ face, more out of sheer disbelief that something this bad got produced and half morbid willingness to see if they can do worse. The answer is yes. To both. 

Afterwards, you walk around the entertainment district somewhat aimlessly. You ignore Agness’ teasing as you buy some snacks here and there, and in the end decide to just buy some booze and head back to drink in peace. The fact you’re _allowed_ to do that without having to sneak around is a novelty you both appreciate. Because you are, essentially, on vacation, you get a little extravagant and buy something other than beer for a change. It’s some weird ass alien liquor thing the shop attendant boasted as their most popular drink. It tastes like blueberries and something critusy you can’t quite place. The first glass goes down easy enough, but a sip into the second you realize you’re fantastically, amazingly, hysterically drunk. 

You’re not sure about the progression of events, entire chunks of time lost to white noise and the insidious warmth in your veins, but when you’re more or less aware of yourself again, Agness is browsing through her clothes and you’re sliding one of her shirts down your body. The material is stretchy and you feel torpid and awkward, scared of tearing it with your claws. 

“You look fucking stupid,” Agness says, cackling. “Give it up, Princess.” 

“You can fuck right off, Ag,” you snarl at her, though your tongue feels too big for your mouth, as you smooth the fabric down your chest. “I can carry this shit better than you’ll ever will.” 

“You ever will or you will ever,” she corrects you, and you squint at her, trying to force sense into the words. 

“’s what I said,” you slur, tracing the swirls on the shirt with a delicate claw. 

“Yeah, right,” Agness laughs and throws a skirt at your face. It takes you a while to figure out is a skirt, what with the ruffles and shit. “There, that’s the biggest thing I own.” 

“…did you just call me fat?” You pout at her, lower lip sticking out as much as possible. 

“…Princess, not even anorexic matchsticks on drugs would call _you_ fat.” She rolls her eyes at you. “Now stop being dumb and put on that skirt.” She smirked. “Unless you’re chickening out.” 

You can’t remember if you started this or not, but you’re not going to back down. You never back down. Sometimes you should, really, all things considered, but it’s not like you have much to show for yourself right now. 

“Fuck that,” you say, and slowly slide the skirt up to your hips. 

The fabric is stretchy and the ruffles aren’t quite ruffly by the time you’re done, but it fits. You can see the tips of your underwear peeking out beyond the rim of the skirt. You run your hands down your sides, feeling your gills and the rings in them bulging subtly, and then down the studded waistband of the skirt. You look at Agness with an arched eyebrow. 

“Well?” 

She stares at you a moment, considering, then you squeak as she reaches out and pulls your underwear off, nearly toppling you off the floor. You sway and scramble back, because the floor decides to wobble under your feet, and when you’ve managed to convince your body not to fall, you glare at her. 

“I fucking hate your hips,” she whines, balling up your underwear and throwing them in the general direction of your clothes. “It’s so fucking unfair, oh my god.” She turns back to the pile of clothes. You’re trying to work out words to protest the fact that you’re not walking out there wearing a skirt with nothing underneath, but then she pulls out a scarf made of teal glittery shit and all but shoves it at you. “Shut up and wrap this around your neck.” 

[ ](http://requisitionforms.tumblr.com/post/46333363272/temporaldecay-shut-up-and-wrap-this-around)

“I ain’t doing fucking glitter.” You fold your arms over your chest and try to stand to your full height, hoping you look intimidating. “Shit be tacky as fuck, Ag.” 

“Your _face_ is tacky as fuck,” she snorts and then gets all in your business, wrapping the thing around your neck. It’s smooth and somewhat watery and you kinda like the texture even though it’s fucking _glitter_. “Now, shoes—“ 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

“You can’t wear fucking combat boots with that get up!” 

“You can wear combat boots with _everything_ ,” you grin, tossing your head back arrogantly. “Besides, you don’t have shoes that fit me and even if you did, I ain’t doing heels. I can’t walk three feet on those without breaking an ankle, never mind walk around the fucking station!” 

You bicker a little more, before heading out. You completely forget you’re wearing a short skirt with nothing underneath, walking hand in hand with her. It’s early still, just before the shift change. You must have been gone for a few hours, then, though you can’t quite recall most of them. The corridors are mostly empty. Instead of going back to the entertainment district, which is nearly closed now, you two decide to head outside. You don’t remember why, only that it seemed like a logical, reasonable thing to do. It’s nearly dawn, outside, but the planet is not Alternia and its sun is nowhere near as brutal. Noon out here is mild discomfort, instead of actual suicide. A corner of your pan is quietly studying your surroundings, running commentary, while an opposing corner is very interested in the slight tug the shirt has on your gills and the breeze quietly brushing between your legs. That, and the industrial amounts of alcohol in your veins, makes everything slide in and out of focus all the time. 

Agness is talking about something or other – rocks, probably – when you notice the other trolls. She’s leading you by the hand and you’re following, docile, because even if everything is a blur of color and sensation, you know you can trust her. So you focus on the newcomers, as Agness walks you further and further away from the station. You’re glad you’re wearing boots and not heels, absently wondering how she’s managing to go down the rocky path without dying. You’re heading down the same path you have, before, towards the great ravine. There are trees and dirt, and not much else, and you remember Russel whining about leaving the small forest behind, grumpily complaining about Agness’ fascination with rocks not letting her appreciate some goddamn vegetation. Just before you cross the border of the trees into the cliffs, proper, the other trolls make themselves known. They move fast, you think, or maybe you move slow. You didn’t think they were following you, really, but now you wonder why you thought that. 

“Eridan Ampora,” the taller one says, “I want to say I’m surprised, really, but I’m not.” 

Agness makes a sound, tightening her hold on your hand to the point it hurts. You squint at the two trolls. They’re shorter than you, but then you haven’t really met many people who are taller than you. A seadweller with a fucking obnoxious sneer, though you think that might be a seadweller genetic imposition, and a… blueblood? Maybe? You sway a little, absently tugging Agness close. 

“Do I hafta pretend I know what you’re talking about?” You offer him a smile full of teeth. “Because I have no fucking idea who you are.” 

His sneer deepens. 

“Probably not,” he says airily, “but I know _you_ well, Orphaner.” 

You’ve heard stories and read books, where people sober up instantly at the sound of a word. You always thought that was bullshit. And then here you are, feeling your Ancestor’s title scourging your veins clean of alcohol and replacing it with sheer adrenaline. 

“Let me guess,” you taunt, even as you try to shove Agness behind you, “dissatisfied costumer?” 

“Oh, no,” the seadweller smiles, fins spreading open as the cane he’s been leaning on turns into a long, thin sword. “Very satisfied. Killing my lusus was the best thing you could have done for me, really. Made me strong.” He lounges and you shove Agness off the side while you step in the opposite direction, avoiding a slash. “Something I see being the Empress’ pet didn’t do for you.” He swishes the blade dramatically. “Is this what you’ve been reduced to? A shitblood’s whore? I would have thought Her Imperious Complacence would reward her most loyal bootlicker something _better_.” 

It probably doesn’t look very good, in retrospect, someone of your blood decked out in Agness’ color. You probably should have realized that before walking out of the block. But you were drunk and stupid and— 

Agness chokes on a sound, and you’re reminded there are, in fact, four trolls in the clearing, not three. 

That, you realize, was a sound of pain. 

From Agness. 

The world explodes into a murderous cacophony of _rage_. 

You sidestep the incoming sword slash and dig your claws straight at the gills in his neck. Seadwellers don’t do that, out of sheer self-preservation. It’s uncouth and underhanded and no one guards against it, because only seadwellers know about it and everyone knows it’s a thing you just don’t _do_. Landdwellers would never even think about it, and if they did, they would never get close enough to try. You don’t give a flying fuck about what’s proper or not, fingers knuckle-deep into the bastard’s neck as you watch him die with a strangled, wet gasp. You snarl at the blueblood, feral and murderous and _pissed_. He lets go of Agness and runs, heading for the ravine. 

“Did he hurt you?” Agness stares at you wide-eyed, holding her left shoulder awkwardly. “ _Agness_.” 

“Just my shoulder!” She squeaks out, pressing back against a tree. “He pulled my shoulder loose, I can probably just—“ But you’re already nodding and heading off to find the fucker. “Eridan!” 

She follows you as you reach the rim of the ravine. The light is too bright, though not enough to blind you, and you can barely see a tiny black dot quickly rushing along the edge, heading for a building complex further away. If he gets there, there will be hell to pay because you just murdered a seadweller in the most offensive possible way there is to murder a seadweller. So the obvious choice is to stop the fucker before he gets there. 

“Eridan… what the fuck, _what the fuck_ , Princess?” Agness is at your side, holding onto her shoulder and panicking. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Agness panic before. It’d be funny, really, if it weren’t distracting. “Why the hell did you do that? That’s—“ You pull out a rifle from your sylladex. It’s not the Crosshairs, not by a long shot, but you like it. Standard regulation sniper baby. You’ve taken it to more than a few spins in the shooting range, in the past three sweeps. “What are you doing?” You pull the ammo from another corner of your sylladex and slowly press it in, because you never carry a loaded weapon anymore. Too much temptation. Having to load before a shot gives you about twenty three seconds to change your mind. Right now, you’re not going to change your mind. “That’s—“ 

“Ag.” She goes on babbling, not even hearing your voice. “Ag!” She’s officially talking too fast to make out the words. “ _Agness!_ ” 

She nearly jumps a foot off the ground. 

“ _What!_ ” 

You offer her a loving smile. 

“Shut the fuck up,” you say, kindly, and hold the rifle in one hand while you absently wipe your glasses clean with the other. “I’m drunk, freaking out and my glasses are foggy. I need to concentrate or I’m going to miss the shot.” 

She stares. 

“You don’t seriously think you can shoot him from this far.” 

“Well, not if you don’t _shut the fuck up_ for a moment,” you snarl at her. You feel terrible for that and promise yourself to make up for it later. She flinches back, slapping both hands to her mouth. “Thank you.” 

You raise the rifle, spreading your feet to brace yourself, and take aim. You aim for the head first, purely because you always aim for the head first. Then twitch a sliver because that’s not what you need right now. You take another breath, slow and controlled, and pull the trigger. 

In the distance, the blueblood trips as the shot goes cleanly through his knee. At the speed he was running, he stumbles forward and sideways and ends up rolling off the side of the ravine, bouncing off the rocks as he makes his way to the bottom. Whatever’s left of him, no one’s gonna even bother to give him a second look before declaring it an accident. You lower the rifle and send it back into your sylladex with a content sigh. 

“Well,” you say, smiling with the grim satisfaction of murder, “there’s that.” 

Agness stares at you like you’ve gone insane. Truth be told, you probably have. 

  


* * *

  


caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling hyacinthusAnemoi [HA]

CA: rus  
CA: hey, rus  
HA: iF tHis iSn’t iMportant, eRidan, i'M gOing tO mUrder yOu  
HA: i jUst gOt bAck tO tHe bLock, nOt eVen fIve mInutes iNto tHe sOpor  
CA: heh  
CA: its important  
HA: hOw iMportant  
CA: super incredibly important  
CA: im also wwearin a skirt  
HA: wHat  
CA: an nothing under it  
CA: ag cant get her hands off my hips  
CA: i figured youd wwant in  
HA: …fUck  
HA: fIne, wHere aRe yOu  
CA: outside  
HA: fUck  
CA: remember the clearin a the ill fated picnic?  
HA: wHy dO yOu dO tHis tO mE  
HA: yEs, i rEmemeber  
CA: thats the one  
CA: an i do this to you because you lovve evvery second a it  
HA: lIes  
HA: i'Ll bE tHere iN tEn mInutes  
CA: swweet  
CA: oh, an rus?  
HA: yEah?  
CA: dont forget to bring the pails

caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased trolling hyacinthusAnemoi [HA]

HA: …oH sWeet mOther oF fUck

  


* * *

  


“I had a friend,” you say, once you put the husktop away, giving Agness a wry smile. “She needed help.” 

Agness is sitting against a tree, holding her freshly set shoulder tenderly, as you go about turning the seadweller’s corpse around. She’s calmed down a little, which is good, but now she’s asking questions, which isn’t so good. 

“And you culled people’s lusii for her?” She frowns at you, uncertain. 

It hurts, the way she’s looking at you. It hurts _really bad_. But you can’t do anything about it except try to explain yourself, because deep down you know you deserve to be looked at that way. 

“I had another friend… well, not really. We were kismesis, for a while,” you sigh, holding the seadweller’s sword and feeling a tidal wave of nostalgia. “Her lusus ate trolls. She had to feed it or it’d eat her.” 

“So you had a friend with a lusus that needed to be fed other lusus and another friend with a lusus that needed to be fed trolls,” Agness arches an eyebrow, giving you a skeptical look. “That’s… very convenient, isn’t it?” 

“You don’t know half of it,” you laugh hollowly, remembering the first time Vriska taught you how to do this, and how you threw up all over yourself and she laughed at you for hours. You think she’s still laughing, somewhere. She’d be laughing at you, right now. You take the sword, weight it in your hand and then stab it right into the armpit. Agness makes a small sound. “You probably don’t want to know.” 

“No,” she says after a moment, huddling against the tree and staring at you almost warily, “I don’t. What are you doing?” 

“Well,” you say, pressing on the sword until it’s sticking to the ground on its own, and then reaching out to grab the wrist. “We can’t just leave the body here. And we certainly can’t waltz back inside carrying it.” You put a foot on his lower back, bracing yourself as you twist the arm and pull. It comes off after a moment, with a wet, sickening sound. “So I’m gonna make it more… travel friendly.” 

“Oh my god,” Agness says, biting on her fingers as you hold the severed limb in one hand. She lets out a soft, muted shriek when you let the arm hit the bloodied ground without a second thought. “How did you _do_ that?” 

“What?” You blink a little, before removing the sword and preparing to do the same thing with the other arm. “You’ve never pulled the wings off a roasted featherbeast?” 

Agness splutters. 

“Yes,” she snarls, as you set the sword in place, “but that was _cooked!_ ” 

_And it was food_ , she doesn’t say, but you can almost hear it. 

“Well, this is about the same thing, really.” You grab the wrist and pull as you twist, your foot once more on his lower back. “It’s all about knowing how to pull.” 

The second arm comes off without much fuss. You don’t mention how you couldn’t possibly do this without a certain amount of highblood strength. You don’t think she’d appreciate the comment. 

“I’m going to throw up,” Agness says, solemn and quiet, as you throw the arm with the other one and you prepare to start working on the legs. 

“Oh, please don’t,” you say, before you stop yourself. You frown. “…or do, actually.” Agness is staring at you like you’ve grown a second head. “Well, no one’s going to question the stench if there’s clearly vomit on sight.” 

She chokes on what sounds like a disgusted _urk_ , and rests her chin on her knees, watching you work. You force yourself to ignore it and not wonder what she might be thinking, as you slowly and methodically dismember the corpse. 

Russel walks in while you’re busy tearing the ribcage open. 

You’re covered in blood and what little guts you couldn’t pile off on the side. And yes, you’re still wearing a skirt and nothing underneath, but you’re quite certain this is nowhere near what he was expecting after you trolled him. Agness is sitting against the tree, still, only now she’s pressing a hand to her eyes. She’s calmed down a lot, by now, but that’s mostly because she’s moved onto the realm of _this isn’t happening if I do not acknowledge it, and you can’t fucking make me acknowledge it_. 

“I can explain,” is the first thing you say, tucking your head down your shoulders. Russel arches an eyebrow, slowly and purposely, and you duck your head even more. “They were going to hurt Ag.” 

There’s three seconds of silence, before Agness blows up. 

“They dislocated my arm, Eridan, _he was trying to stab you in the face_.” 

You turn to look at her, blinking slowly. 

“Yeah, but I deserved that, probably,” you shrug. “They were going to hurt _you_ when they were done with me, and _you_ don’t deserve that.” 

“They?” Russel asks finally, expression still guarded. 

“Yeah, the other one—“ 

“He shot the other jerkfuck from at least a thousand yards away and sent him rolling down the ravine,” Agness interrupts you, giving Russel an exasperated look. “And he tore this asshole’s throat out with his hand and has been merrily using him to explain to me how to dismember a corpse. He’s got _technique_ , Babyface.” 

The moment before Russel sighs is almost eternal. Something inside you loosens up, letting your airsacks work properly again, as the corner of Russel’s lip twitches up and his eyelids fall half-mast, expression long suffering. 

“Sweet fuck, that’s a lot of blood.” 

You smile shakily up at him and go back to tearing the ribcage apart, because it’s not going to do it on its own. Agness cracks a laugh that nearly drowns the sound of you pulling bone free of muscle. 

“Haha, yeah.” She gives Russel a shaky smile of her own. “Think they’ll believe us if we say we were trying to summon an eldritch monstrosity from the beyond or something?” 

“Only if they’re dumb as rocks,” you say, before Russel can open his mouth to reply. “I mean, god. You need a lot more than this to draw a good summoning circle. Not to mention we don’t have the—what?” 

They’re staring at you, Russel in fascination, Agness in disbelief. You blink, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

“…Eridan,” Russel says, taking a hand to rub at his forehead. 

“Why do you _know_ these things?” Agness demands, now officially more exasperated than panicking. 

“What things?” You ask, a little defensively, and maybe holding a bit of rib like a shield. 

“Dismembering a corpse?” Russel retorts dryly, head tilted significantly to the side. 

“How much blood you need to draw a summoning circle?” Agness looks like she wants to throw something at your head and is steadily realizing a rock would do just fine. 

You look at them both, feeling lost and terrified and oh, there it comes, the inevitable bubbling panic every time you murder someone, because the enormity of it is finally sinking in. This is why you commissioned Vriska to build you grand, magnificent weapons of mass destruction, instead of taking your supposed genocidal complex and doing something about it yourself. Because if you could blow them all up from afar, you wouldn’t have to see the remains and the blood and the other gross things coming out of them. Because if you could stand up sufficiently higher, they stopped being people and became just dots on a map and that’s what someone of your prestigious lineage is supposed to do, right? Think of numbers and resources, not lives and friends and quadrants and all the things that end when someone dies. This, the slick feeling of blood in your hands and the slow-dawning realization that yes, you _did_ just kill another person yourself, all on your own. This is not what you wanted, but it's all you've got, the same sick feeling that you've failed somehow. You feel your insides churn and twist, and you tell yourself to fucking stop it because despite what you told Agness, throwing up is not going to help. 

“I was a stupid, stupid kid,” you rasp out, defensive and terrified, “growing up.” 

Agness wraps her arms around you and you feel like someone is using a hook to pull the skin off your bones. 

“You’re a stupid, stupid kid now, Princess.” 

Russel sighs again. 

“Seconding that thoroughly. Now tell me what you need me to do.” 

  


* * *

  


Because Russel is Russel, people take one look at his face and ignore the three of you as he makes a show of dragging you and Agness back inside. No one comments on the blood or the skirt or anything. They look at the greenblood’s long suffering expression and summarily decide they don’t want to know. Back in the block, the three of you squeeze into the ablution trap, scrubbing off blood and grime and god knows what else, before Russel takes the pails, now conveniently full of guts and random bits of seadweller, and ever so casually leaves to empty them out of an airlock. When he comes back, you and Agness are sitting on the floor, still naked from your shower, and staring absently at nothing. He takes one look at you two and then slowly starts undressing, before coming to sit in front of you. 

“Now,” he says, calm and unflappable as only he can be, “one of you is going to give me some of that booze that started this mess, because this was obviously started by booze,” he adds sharply, and you close your mouth with a wince, feeling your fins drop down a little. “And then the other one is going to tell me exactly what happened. And then we’re never, ever going to mention this again. _Ever_.” 

Agness stands up before you can even think about it, and you wince as Russel pins you down with a look. When she comes back with the bottle, still miraculously half full, you wrap your arms around your elbows and try to piece together the last few hours of your life. Agness serves you a glass, when your hands start shaking halfway through, but she drinks half of it before you can wrap your fingers around it. You’re such a trembling mess of adrenaline when you’re done, that when Russel pulls you up for a kiss you melt into a docile, eager puddle of relief. You rest your head on his shoulder while he slides his mouth over Agness’, and when she tugs you down a little to run her tongue against the roof of your mouth, you know it’s going to be okay. 

You’re going to be okay. 

Sex you understand. You’ve made damn sure you understand it well. It’s both a peace offering and a pact, almost, when claws start to delicately trace skin. Sex is okay. Murder and corpse disposal and all that bullshit, that’s not okay. That’s not something you’re going to deal with and no one will ever know. No one has to. No one can make you. You purr loudly when Russel’s hands, wider and smaller than your own, slide up your sides, pulling at the rings as he goes. You grin deviously when your teeth dig lightly against the swell of Agness’ left breast, leaving an imprint and making her squeak. You shift with them, as Russel lays on his back, and it’s fitting, you think, because he’s the solid foundation of this friendship. Then his hands drag you down against his hips and his bulge slides all the way in without warning, and you stop thinking in metaphors. You stop thinking, period. You lean forward, one hand pressed on his chest, just enough that you can kiss the whimpers straight out of Agness’ mouth. Her arms wrap around your shoulders, claws digging in until they break skin and you keen against her lips. You bite her, tongue, cheek, chin, your teeth leaving small, bleeding trails all over her face. They’re faint enough the sopor will sting and close them up when she wakes up. But between that, and whatever Russel tongue’s doing between her legs, it’s enough. It’s enough. You shuffle about, rolling around the floor, and you’re struck by the notion you three could never work a concupiscent platform to your satisfaction. 

This is nothing at all like what you thought you wanted, when you were five and helping Vriska prepare a meal for her lusus. This isn’t at all like what you wanted your life to be, but you don’t regret it. You regret nearly everything you’ve ever done in your life, or at least everything that resulted from everything you’ve done in your life, but not _this_. The sound Russel makes when you slide your tongue inside his nook, half fear of your teeth, half surrender to it. The precise pitch of Agness’ moaning when her bulge is inside you, lashing and twisting and making you feel faint. Sweat slick skin under your hands, pleasure coiling up your spine, and most of all, the stupidly powerful sense that you _belong_ here. 

You don’t regret giving yourself to them, even if all you ever knew, before meeting them, condemns it. You don’t regret murdering for them, even if you know damn well you’re going to get culled for it, when someone else finds out. You don’t regret it and it’s okay, and for the first time in sweeps you _feel_ okay, with the universe and your place in it. 

It’s _okay_. 

You fuck them like you can’t get enough of them and when you’re done, hollowed out by adrenaline and fear and exhaustion, Agness tugs you three into a single coon that’s nowhere near as big to fit you. It’s stifling warmth, with limbs squeezed everywhere, and also the best sleep you’ve ever had in your life. 

  


* * *

  


Three days later, as originally scheduled, you board the shuttle back to the Academy without incident. There’s been no mention whatsoever of the missing seadweller. To the point you’ve all wondered if anyone has even noticed he’s missing at all. It doesn’t matter because it works on your favor anyway, but it’s still odd enough you make note of it. The shuttle is mostly empty and you sit in the cheap seats and eat cheap, processed food that tastes alternatively of cardboard and spicy rubber. 

But Agness is leaning against your side and Russel will occasionally rub a horn against your chin, as if to remind you they’re there. 

The moment you step back into the Academy, you’ve vowed to put the entire outing behind you and never, ever mention it again. You don’t need to, really. You know who your friends are, and they know what being your friend _means_. 

The most important lesson learned, however, is that you’ll never drink alien booze again, no matter what smartass shop attendants say. 

  


* * *

  


_Ah, the rain of dripped-down heavens_  
 _Erodes the castle built on sand:_  
 _Into the pruple night sky,_

_One shot of Tokarev_  
 _The discotheque star_  
 _With the popping-up claps,_  
 _Absorbed in dances._  
 _“That’s why you can’t have your candy now.”_  
 _This means bye-bye._  
 _A 100 000 raise._

~Hatsune Miku, “Tokarev and a Girl.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr people wanted to know about that one time Eridan and Agness got so drunk he wore her clothes and Russel had to bail them both out of trouble. My bad for not making it apparent at the beginning that there was murder involved. Terribad Eridan picture by yours truly.
> 
> ...I am so sorry. OTL
> 
>  
> 
> [RP/Askblog for the Admin Trio + Cast.](http://requisitionforms.tumblr.com/)


End file.
